Death of a Salesman
by tiffaroolou
Summary: Best friends will do anything for each other, right? Even help hide a dead body? Forgive the crack-ish-ness. It's just the mood I'm in lately.


**Death of a Salesman**

The sun was shining, birds were singing, and the trees of southern Santa Barbara were in full splendiforous bloom, sending spirals of seasonal scents spinning on the soft summer breeze. The even more spectacular than usual weather was setting moods to rights all over the city- all over the county, even. Indeed, it was hard to imagine anyone remaining in a bad mood after experiencing such a lovely day.

The extremely (some might say overbearingly) pleasant environment failed to work its magic on everyone, however. In particular one Burton Guster, pharmaceutical rep and sometime pseudo-psychic sidekick remained out of sorts. He stomped up the path to the Psych office, silver sample case in one hand and his cell phone in the other as he grumbled darkly to himself.

"Alright, Shawn," he shouted, pushing open the door. "I'm here! What was so important? I was in the middle of my route you know, and I still have to go by- Shawn?" Gus stopped, puzzled, when he realized he was speaking to an empty front office.

"Shawn?" he called out, exasperated. "Shawn, what is going on?"

"Gus!" Shawn rushed out of the back room toward him, breathless and erratically waving an eggbeater. "Gus! Gus, oh my God, Gus, I killed him. I killed him!" the disheveled psychic babbled, holding the eggbeater at arm's length. "I killed him! He's dead!"

Gus frowned. "What are you talking about, Shawn? And what the hell are you doing with my eggbeater?"

"I killed him. I can't believe it! I was just- and he just- and then-" Shawn stammered, a shocked look on his face. "I killed him!"

"Killed who?" Gus demanded. "What are you saying?"

"Him!" Shawn gestured backward. "The dead guy behind the sofa! Look!"

Gus looked. What looked suspiciously like a shoe was sticking out past the end of the sofa.

Stepping forward nervously, Gus peered around the end before recoiling and whipping around to face his best friend. "Shawn!" he bellowed. "There is a dead guy behind the sofa!"

"Really, Gus?!" Shawn shouted back. "Did I not just say that?"

"Well, I didn't think you meant you actually killed somebody!"

"What did you think I meant?"

"I don't know! I thought it was a euphemism or something."

Shawn blinked in confusion. "Gus, really? You really think I would make this big of a deal over one of those weird looking tubas?"

"Weird looking tubas? Shawn, thoseare called euphoniums_._"

"Really? Huh." Shawn used the eggbeater to scratch his head thoughtfully. "I thought those were the ones that look like giant oboes."

Gus glared at him. "No, Shawn! Those are bassoons. How can you not know these things?"

"Gee, Gus, I don't know," Shawn scoffed sarcastically. "Maybe I just don't feel the need to hang on to every useless bit of woodwind trivia in the world!"

"It's hardly trivia, Shawn," Gus argued. "It's a basic, fundamental fact. And besides, only bassoons are woodwinds. Euphoniums are in the brass section."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure I've heard it both ways. Besides, Gus, don't you think we have bigger issues to focus on here? Like, I don't know, the dead body behind our sofa?"

"No," Gus said sarcastically. "You think?!"

"Well, yeah, Gus. I do. That's why I just said it." Shawn shook his head in disbelief. "Come on, dude. Keep up."

Gus huffed angrily. "So who is this guy, anyway?"

"Well Gus, first of all, you really should say 'who _was_ this guy,'" Shawn corrected. "I mean, seeing as he's dead, and all."

"Shawn," Gus growled, a vein beginning to pulse dangerously in his forehead.

"I know I'm being nit-picky," Shawn continued, "but we really should be using the correct tense to avoid confusion."

"Fine, Shawn," Gus ground out between clenched teeth. "Who _was_ this guy?"

"Well," Shawn began, "he _was_ trying to sell me an industrial grade stand mixer. Of course I told him that we didn't need one because we have a perfectly good handheld eggbeater and–"

"Don't you mean _I _have a perfectly good handheld eggbeater?!" Gus interjected.

"Right. Whatever. The point is, he was trying to show me how his was so much better than mine- er, _yours_, but then all of a sudden he sneezed and dropped it, causing one of the mixer thingies to fly off and hit me in the head." Shawn paused and sighed, shaking his head sadly. "Poor guy..."

"So..." Gus motioned for Shawn to continue. "Come on, Shawn; what happened next?" he demanded. "You can't tell me that's how he died!"

"What?" Shawn chuckled. "No. Of course not, Gus. How could _that _kill him? Don't be ridiculous. No, you see, when it hit me, that made me drop _your_ eggbeater. It then naturally landed on our mini trampoline and bounced back up, hitting him right in the head. And then he fell down." Shawn raised his eyebrows for emphasis as he whispered the last word. "Dead."

"Wait, wait, hold on." Gus held up his hand to stop his friend. "We have a mini trampoline?"

"Fine, Gus. _You_ have a mini trampoline." Shawn shook his head. "It's just semantics, buddy. You know I use all your stuff."

"No, no, no, Shawn. I meant since when do we have a mini trampoline in the office?"

"Well," Shawn began, "you remember when that trampoline salesman came by last week?"

"Uh, no, Shawn. You never told me about that."

"Huh." Shawn shrugged. "Well, I meant to. Anyway, I figure we can write it off as a business expense, since you and I both know I do my best work when my feet are not touching the ground."

"I don't think I understand."

"Oh, come on, Gus. You didn't know that about me? Honestly. And you call yourself my friend."

"What? No, I mean how is it that if both of you got hit in the head, why is he dead, and you're fine?"

"Well," Shawn explained, "like I was telling the guy, your eggbeater is made of much more dense and durable material than his."

"That's true," Gus conceded. "That is a quality eggbeater."

"Right? I mean, how long have you had this thing, ten years?"

"Eleven, actually," Gus corrected with a proud smirk. "Yeah, they don't make things like they used to. That was a college graduation present from my grandmother."

"Ah." Shawn nodded. "Now see, that's nice. That's a nice story."

"Yeah," Gus agreed, smiling fondly. "Grammy always did give sturdy gifts."

"God rest her soul," Shawn chimed in, laying the eggbeater across his heart as he gazed toward the ceiling.

"Uh, my Grammy isn't dead, Shawn."

Shawn put an arm around his friend sympathetically. "It's ok, buddy. I'm here for you."

Gus shook off Shawn's arm violently. "Cut it out, Shawn! My Grammy is not dead!

"Fine. Then maybe you should refer to her in the correct tense. Saying: 'Grammy always _did_ give sturdy gifts,' implies that she's no longer with us, and thus no longer able to give gifts of any kind, sturdy or otherwise."

Gus opened his mouth, about to comeback, and then stopped, scowling. "Shut up, Shawn."

"It's alright, Gus, I know it was just a slip of the tongue. I only hope your Grammy will understand when I tell her about this later." Shawn ignored Gus' sputtering protests as he continued. "Anyway, back to the dead guy. Aside from the superior strength of your eggbeater, it is well known that I have an exceptionally hard head, as well as an undeniably magnificent and possibly magical mane of hair. Ergo, no injury."

"Well, the hard-headed part seems right, at least."

"So, that's the whole story. Now what are we going to do, Gus?"

"I don't know, Shawn. Honestly, you should have thought of that before you killed the guy!"

"Well it's not like I _meant_ to kill him!" Shawn retorted. "What, you think I just woke up this morning and thought, 'Hey, you know what would be fun? Killing a guy with an eggbeater!' Come on, Gus!"

"I don't know, Shawn. Sometimes I really can't tell whatyou're thinking!"

"Dude, I hate to tell you this, but that's because you're not psychic."

"Neither are you, Shawn!"

"Really, Gus? That's mature." Shaking his head, Shawn stepped over to the sofa and peered underneath.

Gus sighed. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to eyeball the size of the space under the sofa. Maybe we can just move it over the body."

"It's not a coffee stain, Shawn. We can't just hide it under a sofa!"

"Why not?"

"What about the next time someone comes over, huh? What are we going to say? 'Don't mind the lumpy sofa, that's just the dead body underneath.'"

"No. You're right. Do we have a closet?"

"Shawn!"

"Alright, alright. I'm thinking." Shawn sat down on the sofa, chin in hand.

After a minute, Gus joined him.

"Gus, what if we- No, that's too obvious."

"Well, Shawn, you know we could- Nah, that would never work."

The two sat in silence for several long minutes. Shawn suddenly jumped to his feet, pointing the eggbeater in his friend's face for emphasis.

"I know what we're going to do, Gus!"

"The first part of it better involve getting that murder weapon out of my face."

"Oops." Shawn lowered the eggbeater sheepishly. "Sorry, Gus."

Gus straightened his collar. "Mhm. That's what I thought."

"Ok, listen. Here's what we're going to do. You listening? Ok. We're going to poke him with a stick to make sure he's dead."

Gus eyed Shawn in disgust. "You must be out of your damn mind, Shawn. I wouldn't touch that dead body with a ten foot pole!"

"Ok, that's fair. How about an eleven foot pole?"

Gus just folded his arms, fixing Shawn with a hard stare.

"Twelve foot?" Shawn offered, with his best winning smile.

_*Five Minutes Later*_

"That's it, Gus. You got it! Poke him!" Shawn stood slightly behind his best friend, as Gus advanced toward the back of the couch with a large pole that Shawn had procured from parts unknown.

Gus turned his head and glowered. "Don't rush me, Shawn. I won't do it if you rush me."

"Ok, ok." Shawn took a step back.

"Thank you." Gus remained where he was, not stepping any closer to the body.

"Dude," Shawn whispered after a minute.

"What?" Gus hissed.

"Dude, are you going to poke it? Or did you chicken out?"

"I am _no_ chicken, Shawn!" Gus insisted adamantly. "It's just... you say this pole is 12 feet long? It seems a little short to me."

"Gus, it's 12 feet, I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"I think so."

"But are you positive?"

"Well, I suppose we could always measure it if that would make you feel better."

"It would, actually."

Shawn sighed. "Fine."

_*Five Minutes Later*_

"Ok, so, 11 feet 8 inches," Shawn clarified, letting the tape measure snap back into place.

Gus dropped the pole as if burned. "11 feet, 8 inches?!" he repeated as it clattered to the ground. "No way. No way, Shawn! Uh-uh! I am _not_ poking that body now."

"What? Oh, come on, Gus."

"Nope." Gus shook his head stubbornly. "Not happening."

"You're throwing a fit over 4 inches?" Shawn asked in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack," Gus confirmed.

"You never had any intention of actually going through with it in the first place, did you?"

Gus shrugged cooly, stepping away from the sofa.

Shawn groaned in disgust. "Fine. _I_ will poke the body, alright? Geez!"

Gus sniffed derisively and examined his cuticles. "Be my guest, Shawn."

Shawn took a step closer, hefting the pole in his hand. Then suddenly, he stopped.

"What?" Gus asked.

"Oh, nothing. Just..." Shawn shook his head. "Nah. Nothing."

"What?"

"Well, I was just thinking, what if he's not dead? You know? I mean, maybe he's just in some sort of shock induced coma, or something."

"Shawn..."

"What?"

"Just poke the body."

"Fine. I'll poke the body, see?" Shawn thrust the pole forward, lightly. "Consider this body officially poked."

Gus scoffed. "That was not a poke, Shawn. You barely touched it."

"Oh, so now all of a sudden you're an expert on pokes?"

"For your information, Shawn, I have _always_ been an expert on pokes, and that was not a poke. I'd say it was more of a tap."

"Oh, really?" Shawn demanded.

"Yes, really." Gus folded his arms smugly.

Shawn jabbed the body hard with the pole. "How's that?"

Gus nodded slowly. "Well, that one was a little better, but still not quite a poke. Try focusing your aim a little more. Point, then release. _That's_ a poke."

"Poke. I'll show you a poke," Shawn muttered, turning around to face Gus and poking him with the end of the pole. "How was that, buddy? Was that a poke? Huh?"

Gus stared down at the pole then back up at Shawn in disbelief. "Did you just poke me with a stick that has touched a dead body?"

"Um, yeah. Yeah, I think I did."

Gus shook his head. "Oh, it's _on_ now!"

Shawn's eyes widened as Gus rolled up his sleeves and began stalking toward him.

"Gus! Buddy! Wait! It was just a joke!" Shawn yelped as Gus leapt forward.

The two hit the ground, rolling around and arguing as they scuffled.

"Shawn, you are such a-"

"Gus, I can't believe you would-"

"-and you know that I can't stand to touch dead things-"

"-after all the years we've been friends I thought you would've-"

"-next time that you want help hiding a body, don't even think about-"

"-when after all this whole thing was your fault anyway!"

Gus pulled away from Shawn. "_My _fault? How can you say that any of this was my fault?"

Shawn picked up the eggbeater from the floor. "Because _this_ belongs to you."

"So? That doesn't-" Gus paused, looking around. "Hold on. What was that?"

Shawn looked around, too. "What was what?"

"That noise."

They stared at the couch. The noise seemed to be coming from behind it.

"It's nothing. Dead bodies don't make noise." But Shawn didn't look too sure of himself. Getting up on his knees, he shuffled forward to peer around the back of the couch.

"What is it?" Gus asked from right behind him.

"Shh!" Shawn warned. The two friends held their breath as they stared at the body.

After a minute, Gus laughed awkwardly. "It was probably just our imagin- Aaaah!"

"Aaaah!"

Both Shawn and Gus shrieked in unison and jumped back as the body suddenly moved, moaning.

Gus quickly grabbed the eggbeater from Shawn and began lashing out in defense, hitting the body again and again and again as he squealed girlishly. Finally, when the body was motionless once more, he stopped.

Panting, he stared down at the body.

"Shawn, did I-" he gasped in shock. "Did I just kill that guy? Was he alive the whole time, and I just killed him?"

Shawn stood, clapping him on the shoulder. "It would appear so."

"Oh my God, Shawn! What are we going to do?"

"Well, we could always try checking to make sure he's really dead," Shawn offered helpfully.

Gus glared. "That's not funny, Shawn."

"Well, it worked once."

"... Shawn."

"Ok, so here's what we're going to do. I don't know. But I have a sudden craving for a pineapple smoothie. Want one?" Shawn was already halfway out the front door.

"What? No! Shawn! Where are you going?

Shawn ducked his head back inside the door. "I'll be right back, buddy. Extra pineapple ok?"

"Shawn! Shawn, there is a dead body in our office! You can't just leave!"

By that time Gus was speaking to a swinging screen door.

He stared at it in annoyance for a moment.

"He better not forget my smoothie."


End file.
